


if we be friends

by besidethesea



Series: with a faery, hand in hand [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fae & Fairies, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Prince Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Wholesome boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24039106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besidethesea/pseuds/besidethesea
Summary: They’ve been traveling together for going on a season when Geralt finds the first cluster of plants sewn along the edges of his leather armor.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: with a faery, hand in hand [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734118
Comments: 36
Kudos: 526





	if we be friends

**Author's Note:**

> title from act 5, scene 1 of a midsummer night's dream

When Jaskier and Geralt finally stumble out of the Faerie Wood—brief skirmish with a small pack of wolves quickly averted by Jaskier sneakily baring his own pair of fangs behind Geralt’s back—it’s already fully dark. The village that Geralt had visited months prior, the same one Jaskier has been frequenting for most of his adolescence, is a few yards away; a few lanterns outside of the tavern still lit and welcoming.

But Jaskier goes nowhere near it, instead bounding past Geralt and Roach—“ _Roach? Who would name such a pretty creature after a fish, Geralt?”—_ towards a small house on the outskirts of the village. As Geralt watches, Jaskier reaches behind a small chicken coop, the few hens cooing almost curiously, and pulls out a small satchel. At Geralt’s raised brow, the fae grins crookedly. “Marta made sure to keep provisions for me after the first few times I wandered out of the woods nearly naked as a wee babe,” he explains, before reaching into the bag and pulling out a bundle of blue. Geralt carefully looks away as the fae begins to don the clothes. It’s a blessedly mild night for the end of winter, spring just showing her presence in the small wisps of green that poke out from gray, slushed, snow and soggy mud.

“I’ve been coming here for years,” Jaskier says, after a moment of gentle murmurings of creative curses. Geralt’s sure he’s never heard of a _son of a spriggans hairy arsehole_ before, and he’s positive he never wants to again. He makes a noncommittal noise in response, too busy scanning the quiet village and surrounding forest for possible threats. A gloved hand grips a silver dagger at his waist. After all, he just escaped the hold of a faerie curse, _with_ a fae, at that. One can never be too careful. “They know me here. Old Tomas down the lane studied at Oxenfurt—can you believe?—and took pity on me when I first stumbled into the village, he’s been teaching me all he knows since.” Jaskier pauses and Geralt turns to see him fiddling thoughtfully with the buttons of his doublet, a simple woolen thing, well made and worn. “Though, since my coming of age I’ve not been back. Turns out there’s a good deal of things you need to know in order to properly run a Faerie Court.” He snorts, and releases the fabric, leaving his doublet unbuttoned and open for all and sundry to see. Geralt pretends not to notice the small smattering of dark chest hair peeking from the neck of his linen chemise. “At least, according to my father there is.”

Geralt’s blood runs cold at the realization of what Jaskier’s words mean. “You’re a prince?”

Jaskier snorts indelicately, a very un-prince-like action, and runs a hand through his windswept hair as he wraps the strap of the satchel across his shoulder and makes his way back towards Geralt. “By blood, maybe,” he replies. “But not in name, not if I have any say about it. Fae courts are mundane things, surprisingly.”

Geralts’ gaze goes to the forest surrounding them once more. Once the fair folk of the Spring Court realize that he has all but stolen their prince, they will come for him. And he’s not too fond of the idea of sleeping for another indeterminate amount of time. “Oh, wait, almost forgot!” The fae exclaims, striding back towards the chicken coop and crouching down. Geralt watches as his hands flutter over the barren earth, unable to bridle his curiosity. Beside him, Roach nickers and stomps her hooves impatiently. “There, now they’ll know I was here.” When Jaskier finally stands and comes sauntering back, running a gentle hand alongside Roach’s side as he passes the two of them away from the village, Geralt sees that he’s left behind a small ring of dandelions at the base of the house. “That’s what they know me here as,” Jaskier says, when Geralt turns to see him paused a few paces away. “Dandelion.”

He’s facing the Faerie Wood, expression unreadable to Geralt’s untrained emotional eye, and clutching at the strap of his bag with a white-knuckled grip. Geralt leaves him to his inner turmoil and mounts Roach, his thighs protesting due to their extended disuse. Riding is going to be difficult for awhile, until he can build the muscle up again, but it feels good to be back in the saddle, above the ground and able to flee quickly in case of danger. He carefully does not think of what he would do about Jaskier in that situation. Not yet.

Instead, he motions Roach forward with a gentle nudge. “Let’s go,” he says as he passes Jaskier.

And they do; leaving the village, the Faerie Wood, and dandelions behind.

*******

They’ve been traveling together for going on a season when Geralt finds the first cluster of plants sewn along the edges of his leather armor. He sneaks a surreptitious look towards Jaskier, who whistles away as he collects firewood for their camp a few yards away, dressed in a fancy new red ensemble that matches the red verbena Geralt is currently running the rough pads of his fingertips over.

He thought it was odd, when Jaskier had insisted upon taking his armor to be replaced by himself in the last town they’d visited, but he had blamed it on the fae’s unending curiosity and fascination with the humans. And his ever-growing need to get into trouble. Geralt barely had time to fasten the straps on the armor that Jaskier had all but flung at him in his haste to run from the butcher whose daughter he’d supposedly gotten a bit _touchy_ with—“I complimented her _necklace_ , Geralt. Honestly, if that counts as flirting amongst the humans, I’d hate to see how they react in the Faerie Realm.”—before he’d jumped in to protect the idiot. No time to inspect the armor and any alterations that had been added on.

Now, though, Geralt can clearly see that as well as new, supple leather armor he’s acquired a small amount of fae protection. Red verbena and St. John’s Wort clumsily stitched around what are clearly strips of rowan wood.

Geralt thinks of Jaskier, possibly pricking the tips of his fingers as he takes the utmost care of sewing these plants into Geralt’s armor. Knowing that the witcher had found himself on the wrong side of the fae once before and going out of his way to make sure that doesn’t happen again. The thought makes a warm, honey-thick feeling spread through his chest. Clearing his throat to try and get rid of it, Geralt quickly puts on the armor and fastens the multiple straps. Once he’s finished, he meets Jaskier in the middle of their campsite, a small pile of firewood now awaiting an _Igni_. The fae looks up at Geralt as he approaches, hands on his narrow hips, and smiles proudly. “I think I’m getting the hang of this,” he says, reaching up to wipe a thin layer of perspiration from his brow. “The sweat, though, that’s not getting any easier.”

Geralt huffs in gentle amusement, lighting the fire without looking, and passes the fae to grab his crossbow from Roach’s saddlebags. As he goes, he claps a careful hand on the fae’s back. “Thank you, for the armor,” he mutters, making sure it’s loud enough for Jaskier to hear. Then, before he can reply, “I’m going to catch dinner.”

He can hear Jaskier’s flustered muttering ringing through his ears long after he’s out of hearing range.

*******

Though he wears a constant human face, Jaskier betrays himself as being something _Other_ with every breath.

He’s a never-ending stream of spoken thoughts, no filter raised into him to hold back those things that humans won’t let themselves say aloud. Geralt finds himself having to keep a hand ready to grab the back of the faes neck when a genuine compliment to a lovely maid gets met with genuine anger by brothers, husbands, or fathers. Dragging Jaskier away from cuckolds becomes just a part of the everyday. As does patching him up when Geralt finds himself unable to save him in time—rare, but often enough that Geralt’s found himself stocking up on potions and salves that are safe for the faes consumption or application. Those times he spends wrapping cuts and scrapes in silence, ignoring Jaskier’s hisses of exaggerated pain and annoyance in favor of stewing in his own guilt at not having gotten to the man sooner. And his anger at having to interfere in the first place.

“Why can’t you keep your fucking mouth shut, fae?” Geralt mutters now, as he applies a salve to a particularly dark bruise at the base of the mans spine from where an opponent got a kick in as they’d fled.

Jaskier makes a noise of offense. “It’s not _my_ fault that these ingrates find my charm provocative and unjust,” he grumbles, curving his back away and grunting when Geralt applies a _bit_ more force than necessary. “I can’t help who I am.”

“And who’s that, hm?” Geralt questions, turning away at last to screw the lid back on the jar. “An idiot who flirts thoughtlessly with everything that moves?”

“ _Rude_ ,” Jaskier says warningly, pulling his chemise back down and beginning to tuck it into his breeches. Although his frustration with the current situation makes the act pointless as the fabric keeps bunching in weird places. He gives up with a huff and places his hands on his hips almost imperiously. “And no. I am a _Spring Court faery_ , Geralt. We embody love, and rebirth, and virility. It is in my _nature_ to be a bit… _loose_ with my affections. It helps encourage nature to be the same.”

Geralt raises a brow, unable to believe that the behavior is something the fae shares with his kind and not just who he inherently _is._ Surely the entire Spring Court isn’t filled with fools just ready to lay their hearts—and backsides—bare to any and everyone. No, Geralt can’t see it, that has to be just Jaskier.

As if reading his mind, the fae sighs and turns away. “Okay, so _maybe_ I’m a bit more _outspoken_ about it than my brethren. But who could blame me!? Everyone—well, most everyone—deserves to have positive attentions lavished upon them! Why shouldn’t I be the one to spread the love, as they say?”

“Maybe because it’ll get you killed,” Geralt replies, getting up from the log he’d been perched on to place the salve back in Roachs’ saddlebags.

Jaskier shoots him a coy look over his shoulder. Geralt’s stomach flips in a completely unrelated way. “There are worse ways to go, that’s for certain,” he states, slipping on his doublet, but not fastening the buttons. As has become his habit. “But if that is how I meet my fate, then so be it.”

He sounds so sure, and unafraid, that Geralt is both taken aback and frustrated. He’ll be damned if he lets this stupid fae die over such a trivial thing as _love_. Geralt grunts, “If you insist.” He can silently vow to not let it happen, but he doesn’t have to let Jaskier know. Witchers have no emotions, after all, and that includes concern. What’s concern? Geralt’s never heard of it.

Eager to leave this conversation—and town—behind, Geralt hefts himself up into Roach’s saddle and urges her back towards the road they’d left behind in their hasty retreat. Jaskier makes a put upon noise and scoops up his satchel that so many months ago had only seen the back of a chicken coop and has now been acquaintance to many an escape and angry mans’ face. Geralt has found himself admiring Jaskier’s ability to make use of any object as a weapon more times than he can count. In the few times when Geralt’s not been around to put his own to use. As the fae follows behind him, Geralt hopes that that won’t become another habit.

*******

A year after they meet, Jaskier becomes restless. Well, more so than usual. He’s tried his best to reel in the feeling and make use of it; spending hours in the forests they travel gathering the herbs Geralt needs for his potions, using the cover of night to stretch his wings while Geralt is sleeping, sneaking into brothels they come across while Geralt’s on hunts to spend coin and pent up energy. Nothing helps. Jaskier still feels as if he’s got nettles under his skin. An unpleasant feeling if he’s ever had one.

He knows that Geralt has to have noticed, but has either been too kind, or too uncomfortable with the inevitable conversation, to ask. Surely he knows about their dwindling coin—though Jaskier always tries to replace those which he takes, but there’s only so many pockets he can pick before the humans start to suspect his charms—but he just makes sure to accept more jobs, no matter how tedious, after these instances. Jaskier really is quite fond, and undeserving, of him.

What he really needs, Jaskier thinks one night whilst perched in the top boughs of a pine, is a hobby. A skill he can spend all his time and energy honing until he masters. He has a basic knowledge of self-defense—any self-respecting fae learned early on to defend oneself—and some of sewing, mostly embroidery. But the thought of wielding a sword or, gods forbid, a needle and thimble for hours on end has him gritting his elongated fangs in annoyance. No offense to Geralt or tailors, their talents are much needed, but Jaskier can’t think of anything more boring than sword-fighting or sewing. Well, maybe running a court, but that’s a life that Jaskier has firmly turned his back upon. A crown belongs on his head just as much as a pair of trousers.

He sighs, placing his chin in his hands, careful not to scratch himself with his talons. He spends so much time in his human glamor, he’s often taken aback at what he finds when he removes it. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend that he’s just a lowly human; life would be so much easier if he were. Finding a skill to fill his time would be so much easier if he had had a normal human education—Jaskier sits up so fast that he nearly topples right out of the tree. He’s a genius!

He lets out a crow of victory and flings himself from the branch, doing flips in the air all the way back to the village they’d taken shelter in. Geralt will be so pleased that he’s decided to make himself useful.

*******

Geralt is not pleased. Although, that could have more to do with the fact he’s covered head to toe in selkimore guts and less with Jaskier’s joyful announcement. It’s always hard to tell with the mans’ lack of expression.

“Oxenfurt?” The witcher questions, voice so pleasantly gruff that Jaskier is hard pressed to tamp down the familiar curl of arousal that spreads from his chest outward. Arousal, right. Better reel _that_ in before Geralt’s witcher-y senses pick it up. “What do you need to go to Oxenfurt for?”

Jaskier sighs. Honestly, for such a wonderful specimen, Geralt really is quite dense sometimes. “For an _education_ , my dear. What else?”

Geralt raises a brow, something that looks even more intimidating than usual with the added effect of viscera coating his form. “An education?” He asks, repeats. “Why?”

Geralt is so, _so_ lucky he’s gorgeous. “Because I’m losing my _mind_ , you buffoon!” Jaskier cries, flinging his hands into the air. He gets odd looks from the patrons in the tavern around them. Jaskier bares his fangs at them. “Oh, sod off you useless lot!”

“Jaskier!” The witcher looks equal parts amused and flabbergasted. Jaskier doesn’t blame him; he hardly ever loses his temper and he _definitely_ never lets his glamor drop around humans. It goes to show how much he is losing himself that he did. They stare at eachother, Geralt perplexed and Jaskier abashed, waiting for the barmaid to return with the pail of heated water for the witchers’ bath. The fae can feel a fissure opening up between them, one he’s not quite sure he wants to grab ahold of. Not if it’ll keep him here, in this life he’s become so used to, in this _wheel_ of habit and frustration, ever turning and never changing. Geralt is his friend, but Jaskier won’t lose himself for his sake. It’s not in his nature to be self-sacrificing.

Finally, Geralt sighs, and sets the tankard of ale he’d been nursing on the table behind him. “Fine. We’ll leave in the morning, then, if you wish.”

He sounds so resigned, defeated. Jaskier hates himself as his heart fills with joy. What he wants, nay _needs_ , is just within his grasp. All it’ll take to get it is Geralt’s well-being, his content in spending his days chasing coin across the Continent, his discomfort in being in constant contact with the human race. Jaskier feels his throat constrict. Well, fuck. That hurts.

“No,” he huffs, determined even though it pains him to say. “No; this is something I need to do on my own, Geralt.”

In the year they’ve known each other, the most time they’ve gone apart is three days, the longest time it took for Geralt to finish a hunt (a bruxa, that had nearly sliced him in half. He’d spent the time healing in the woods next to its corpse, not wanting to distress Jaskier at the sight. He’d been furious when Geralt returned and told him). An education at Oxenfurt, Jaskier knows, from his days spent learning at Tomas’ knee, takes about four years. Four _years_. It’s not but a second to long-lived creatures like the two of them, but still so long. Can Jaskier physically, emotionally, handle that amount of time apart? He must, if he’s to quench this thirst within his soul. Oxenfurt, like the coming of spring, calls to him. He must.

Geralt must see all this in his eyes, because he swallows whatever disagreement he was about to voice. “If you wish,” he says again.

And Jaskier _hates_ himself, because it sounds like goodbye.

*******

Dawn hasn’t yet broken when the two of them rise the next morning, solemn as the grave. Jaskier has all his meagre belongings in his satchel and a gray gelding named Pegasus waiting for him in the stable, hastily bought the night before with the payment from the selkimore. He’d protested when Geralt offered, but the other mans’ insistence that he needed a horse to get him to Oxenfurt, _it’s safer Jaskier_ , wore him down. His last gift—not the only, no, he’s had his protection and his friendship this past year—from Geralt for at least a few years.

They stand in the middle of the road, the fissure stretching between them like the strings of a lute—and a pang of longing runs through Jaskier at the thought, _huh_. How do you say goodbye to the one person who has ever shown you a measure of care? How do you give voice to all the emotions roiling inside of you without screaming and terrifying half the Continent with the sound? Jaskier settles for clearing his throat and extending his hand. “Well, Geralt, until we meet again.”

Geralt’s eyes, so amber and beautiful, flick from his hand to his face. For a moment, Jaskier thinks he’ll ignore the gesture, but Geralt takes him completely by surprise. He takes his hand, but then he pulls and takes the rest of him as well. A year they’ve known each other, now, and this is the first hug they’ve exchanged. Most likely it’ll be the only, knowing Geralt, so Jaskier enjoys it while it lasts. When they part, Geralt pats his back a little rougher than called for. “Take care, Jaskier.”

Jaskier nods and mounts the gelding, situating the satchel on his back. With a last long look at the witcher, he turns and leaves, the horses hooves the only sound in the sleeping village.

He doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be alarmed! More is on it's way! xx
> 
> waterloosunset17.tumblr.com


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